


Duet

by spinsterclaire



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Diana Gabaldon, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7582489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterclaire/pseuds/spinsterclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reincarnation/soul mate AU where Jamie and Claire are destined to find each other - and trouble. As they move through their different lives, their time together grows less and less and Claire becomes jaded to her "phrase".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“ **Don’t you dare do that!** …You have to get the bone of the upper arm at the proper angle before it will slip back into joint,” I said, grunting as I pulled the wrist up and the elbow in. The young man was sizable; his arm was heavy as lead.  
“This is the worst part,” I warned the patient. I cupped the elbow, ready to whip it upward and in.  
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “ **It canna hurt much worse than it does. Get on wi’ it.** ”

_Outlander_

“I will find you,” he whispered in my ear, “I promise.”

_Dragonfly in Amber_

 

 

**_UN_ (Paris, France – April 1829)**

The girls at Madame Hilde’s knew Sunday was bad for business. Not because the men weren’t interested in sex—when was sex _not_ on the male conscious?—but because the Sabbath made them exceedingly selfish. Sequestered in their homes for the two days prior, with little relief from wifely hovering, Hilde’s clients thought of nothing but their own sexual pleasure. _La Soif Dimanche_ , Hilde called it. The Sunday Thirst.

But this desperation was precisely the problem. So bursting with need, Sunday’s patrons had no attention for small-talk or pleasantries. And certainly no post-coital politicking.

Thus, while the girls’ purses might clink with the day’s wages, their efforts would be for naught, their true business gone unaccomplished. If their legs opened, but their clients’ mouths stayed shut, then the day was a veritable failure.

Sex at Madame Hilde’s was more than business. Sex was war. Their clients might call them “whores” and the government might call them “traitors”, but the girls at Madame Hilde’s were warriors, first and foremost.

 _That_ was their true business. Revolution, rebellion.

“Remember this, _mesdemoiselles_!” Madame Hilde always said. “A man may spill himself inside you, but it is _you_ who plants the seed. He will water it with his lust, and you will reap its sow: _liberté, égalité, fraternité_!”

So it was no surprise that Claire Beauchamp had been dreading her Sunday appointment. There would be no stroll through the Tuileries today, no picnic beneath the mulberries with a fresh punnet of  _des_ _fraises_. Instead, Claire was up at dawn and in the throes of debate: which bustier would best accentuate her assets? Which would inspire easy revelation (him) but necessitate as little degradation as possible (her)? _The black_ , Claire thought. Less obvious, more suggestive than the red—and she was in no mood for anything but suggestions today.

Hilde had knocked on her door the night before, come bearing “the most fortunate news!” Fortunate, in this instance, had been entirely subjective, for the announcement of said news spoiled all plans for a peaceful, solitary Sunday.

“Monsieur Sandringham! _Tu te souviens de lui_?”

Claire had groaned into her pillow, “Oui," and added with a whisper, “Prick the size of a gherkin.”

“He asks that you visit his home _du matin_. He still fears being seen at my establishment. Reputations and such.”

“What’s to say he knows anything? Last time was a bloody waste,” Claire had whined. “And I’ll be damned if he’s not riddled with venereal disease!”

Hilde sighed, smiling.

“Oh _, ma petite medecin_. Save your diagnoses for when you are asked for them. You will _make_ him talk. You are good at that, _n’est ce pas_?”

Indeed, Claire was—and such was the very reason Hilde provided her room and board at no expense.

Newly-divorced, 22-year old Claire had fled the shadows of marital scandal, believing the English Channel might wash her slate clean. Unfortunately, this slate had supplied no food, money, or shelter upon her arrival in Paris. It was only by chance that Madame Hilde had discovered her at _la boulangerie_ one morning, deftly manipulating its owner for free bread.

Claire remembered the day vividly: the tinkling bell; the tall, avian woman with watchful eyes. A crooking finger and a gravely but warm voice saying:

“ _Vous, mademoiselle._ _Je vois un feu en vous._ _Vous viendrez avec moi_.”

And how could Claire refuse? She’d had nowhere else to go, ate little, and wore rags. And while there would be no riches at the end of this story—or riches come by honestly, to be specific—there were at least the sanctuary and stability she’d been lacking.

It had been three months since she’d joined Hilde’s ranks, and the madame’s instincts had served the establishment well. Claire was requested more than most, tipped generously by her patrons, and always laden with secrets upon her return. She had a knack for persuasion, and a talent for doctoring that proved invaluable whenever disease struck. Off the clock, she treated all of Hilde’s girls’ illnesses, cautioned them against certain sexual practices, and taught them the basics of personal hygiene. And then she would slink off to her appointments, tongue like the forceps she used so well, and extract information from her clients. _Vive la Revolution!_

Fleetingly, Claire would laugh at the irony. So she’d been cleansed by the Channel—and then what? The minute her feet touched ground at Le Havre, she’d plunged herself into a pot of scalding-hot water, all lies and rebellion. To think what Frank would make of her now…

The sun hung just above the Sacré-Cœurwhen she stepped outside. Picking her way along the sidewalk, she noticed the street urchin was in his usual place, hunched surreptitiously beneath the eaves of _la patisserie_. She rummaged inside her pockets for a spare bit of change, fingers lighting on yesterday’s earnings. She removed two coins as she approached, and the boy’s face stretched into a smile at the offering.

“Mademoiselle Claire!” he cried. He caught the money when she tossed it. “You look very well today.”

“As do you, Claudel.” Claire motioned to his ensemble with an encompassing wave of the hand. “And what game are we playing at this week?”

She didn’t know the boy’s age but was sure his cleverness far exceeded it—and to the detriment of Parisian society, at that. Today, he was crowned in a crude sort of turban: a tangle of purple and silk scarves, all dripping with a single jewel at the front. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that the dangling ruby was, in fact, an earring. All of it was, no doubt, pilfered from a woman’s purse.

“Today I am a seer. You like?”

“Terribly convincing.” Claire laughed, pitying the poor fool who would actually believe the ruse. Most would have the sense to pass him by, but there were always those too drunk or too superstitious to scorn the entreaties of a seer.

“Last week was not so profitable,” Claudel lamented. This statement was not at all surprising, considering his snake-charmer’s guise had been lacking the requisite snake. He’d used a broken pipe as his lyre and a shopping bag as his “basket”, which couldn’t have helped matters, either. “I admit, I did not think it through.”

“Well, let’s hope you have better luck this week.”

“ _Merci_ , mademoiselle.” Claudel leaned closer then, voice dropping to a whisper. “But before you go, I must tell you something. _Hier soir_ …I spotted _les_ _sauvages_. Right here— _a Paris_!”

“The savages? What do you mean?”

“ _Vous ne connaissez pas les sauvages_?” Claudel clucked his tongue. “ _Mon dieu_ , they are beasts! One is a giant with eyes like a lion. And hair like its mane, too! They say he comes from the hills to eat the flesh of beautiful ladies.”

“My, he sounds positively charming.”

Claire recalled hearing a similar tale from Suzette, though whether the girl had entertained the man herself or merely used a recycled description, she wasn’t sure. She _did_ know, however, that while  _les sauvages_ were neither giants nor lions, they did hail from the hills of Scotland. Their presence in Paris was odd, but she supposed the Scots could never resist a good fight. And Paris was buzzing with war, nowadays.

“For your safety, _mademoiselle_ , I must do a reading to see if _les sauvages_ are in your future.”

Claire lifted one brow, looking pointedly at the donation she’d given him. 

“Not today, Claudel. Early appointment, I’m afraid.” She walked on, but the boy fell into step beside her, stammering protests.

“B-but mademoiselle!” He squeezed his eyes shut and feigned concentration. “I do! I see—I see _les sauvages_ in your future! The giant is having his way you! _C’est vrai_!”

Claire hooted and threw him an extra coin. She had to hand it to him: his resilience was impressive, and successful reinvention was no easy feat. She of all people, should know.

“For just three francs more, I can tell you where you will meet them! You must be prepared, mademoiselle, for _les sauvages_ show no mercy.”

“You know, you might make more money if your visions weren’t quite so dire.”

Claudel seemed puzzled by this advice, as he paused for a moment to weigh its truth. Taking advantage of his distraction, Claire increased her pace and left him to puzzle it in her wake.

“Why, _bien sur_!” he cried moments later, now several feet behind. “ _A quoi je pensais!_ You will find love today, _mademoiselle_! That is what I meant to say. _L’amour_!”

“ _Bonne chance_ , Claudel!” she called back, laughing, and she rounded the corner into the next street.

Now free of Claudel’s chatter, the silence wrapped itself around her. It was easy to forget that everyone—even _les sauvages,_ even her foes—slept each and every night. Paris itself lay vulnerable for a stretch of time, quiet and sleepy beneath the moon. Blood ran frequently these days, but for a few hours at least, it might only warm the body and pulse steadily with dreams. It made Claire smile, thinking of Monsieur Sandringham without his powdered wig, lying unconscious and naked in his bed. She remembered his flesh being slack from drink, the large, whopping expanse of his belly soft and pliant. Perhaps if she arrived quietly, just before he woke, she’d drive a knife through his gut and that would be the end of it.

 _Try that, Beauchamp. And you_ will _be in danger._

Claire’s violent thoughts were interrupted by equally violent screams. Despite the early hour, the corner tavern was still a bustle of activity. It hummed with the sounds of clanking glasses, of male cheers and, now, a passionate squabble at its entrance. Five men, all French by the look of their dress, were barring two others (definitely _not_ French, if attire was truly the judge of ones origins) from going back inside. Fists were thrown, a few kicks dropped, but it seemed the two exiles had been sufficiently outnumbered. The gang of Frenchman returned inside, slamming the tavern door firmly behind them.

Wanting to avoid the outsiders, Claire made for another street, when something caught her attention:

One of the brawlers stood far taller than anyone she’d ever seen. His legs and arms were like sculpted marble, though he was clutching one shoulder in apparent agony. The sun caught the mussed curls of his hair, sparking the strands into red candles in the dawning light. She rubbed her eyes, hardly believing it herself, because surely it couldn’t be…

“ _Pour_ _liberté! Pour égalité! Pour fraternité_!”

“ _Ach_ , give it a rest, Murtagh. Can ye no’ see I’m hurt, man?”

As if his stature weren’t enough, the man’s accent was unmistakable. Scottish— _les sauvages._

‘Murtagh’, Claire realized, bore no small resemblance to a marsupial. He ignored his friend’s instruction and continued shouting, his rat’s face scrunched in anger.

“Clot-heided, mother-rutting _swine_!”

Intrigued despite herself, Claire walked towards them. She caught snatches of their conversation as she drew closer and noticed the displaced bone in the tall man’s shoulder. It jutted outwards at a peculiar angle, the white of it peeping through tanned skin. Murtagh seemed of a mind to punch it back into place, as one hand was braced against the man’s arm, the other poised to swing.

“Don’t you dare do that!” Claire burst, legs accelerating into a run. “You’ll break his arm if you do it like that!”

Murtagh whipped around, one very unkempt brow raised in disgust.

“And who the hell are you, sayin’ as what I should and shouldna do?”

“I—I’m a nurse,” Claire lied, without conviction. She wasn’t much of _anything_ , really, or not entirely anyways. Only bits and pieces of this or that. Incomplete.

“Jamie, lad, d’ye hear that?” Murtagh laughed and ogled her chest. “A nurse, she says!”

But the red-haired man had not blinked since she’d spoken. His eyes shone brightly, staring at her, and his mouth pulled into an infectious grin.

“What’s yer name, lass?” he asked softly, _expectantly_ , as though he might already know the answer. His expression was tender, but it still unsettled her, and she inched away to the echo of Claudel’s prophecy:  _Les sauvages show no mercy._

“C-Claire.”

Jamie exhaled deeply, looked to the sky—“ _A Dhia_ , thank you! Thank you!”—and charged forwards. Before she knew it, his lips were pressed against hers, tongue poking its way into her mouth. Her legs wobbled for the contact, but her own mouth fell into his rhythm easily.

Nonetheless, she shrieked and struggled against him, one arm hitting his injured shoulder. Distracted from the pain now, he didn’t scream but began to plead.

“Claire! Claire, it’s me! Jamie!” He came at her again, but she was ready this time and brought her hand back for a slap. “ _Jamie_ , Sassenach!”

Claire stopped. Something about that word.  _Sassenach_. Something about that tone, those eyes and that mouth made her pause, hand still suspended in the air. Murtagh seemed to share her confusion, for he stood to the side, looking between them with an open mouth.

Jamie frowned and nodded towards her hand. “Ye mean to slap me?”

“I—I was thinking about it, yes.”

“You dinna seem very convinced.”

“Well, I…” But her lips tingled with the sensation of his touch, and there was a part of her that reached out to him, yearning. She searched for an excuse, and said, lamely, “You’re injured, of course. No victory in hurting an injured man.”

“I appreciate your concern, but it canna hurt much worse than it does,” he said. The humor in his voice infuriated her. “ _Get on wi’ it_.”

Claire’s hand soared forwards, palm meeting Jamie’s cheek in a loud, cracking _smack_.

As if reeling from the impact, Claire felt her heartbeat quicken, insides turned upside down. A rush of memories she’d not known she had—the smell of hay, wool against her skin, the cries of bagpipes—descended around her, like rain.

 _Scottish rain_ , she thought suddenly.

“Jamie?” she said, the name rolling so perfectly off her tongue. Her vision blurred with tears as realization came. “ _Jamie_.”

Caught off balance by the assault, Jamie now lay at her feet. His laughter rose from the street, and the sight of those slanted blue eyes and that red candle hair whispered of home. She felt whole, cleansed—her slate full; bountiful. She dropped to her knees, realizing she had known these tears before. Had cried them once, long ago, to the sounds of cannon-fire and a flower’s snapping stem.

“Jamie,” she whispered. “Is this—is this really happening? You’re here?”

He nodded, and she pulled his head into her lap. Neither spoke, looking only at faces they’d known forever. Faces they’d loved; faces they’d dreamt of, when blood only warmed the body and pulsed with dreams of the future and the past.

“I found ye, Sassenach,” Jamie said, finally. “I told ye I would.”

Claire kissed his forehead, and then hovered just above his lips.

“Yes,” she breathed. “You found me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for definitions of the asterisked words.

 

**_II_ (Ohio River Valley – June 1853)**

His arrival was announced by a creak on the veranda. A young boy; a Monday midnight.

And while most women lay snug in cocoons of prayers and cotton nightgowns, Claire Beauchamp was cradling a rifle to her chest. The gun was heavy in her hands, its big, hulking mass her own sort of bedmate throughout the quiet evenings.

Truthfully, Claire couldn’t remember the last time she’d said her nightly prayers. Lamb's recent death had inspired a lackadaisical sort of faith, the kind that ebbed and flowed with the wheel of her misfortunes. God had become a passing curiosity, Mass like a strange playact whose curtains rose with or without its brightest stars (no justice in that; nothing worthwhile). Claire’s appearances at chapel only earned her Frank Randall’s attention, anyways—and he seemed the type to prefer his women pious and nightgowned.

Claire laughed at this vision of the two of them: she, nursing her gun, and Frank, nursing a bone-deep disappointment at finding her in such a state. No  _I-lay-me-down-to-sleep’s_ , no ruffled cottons. No sleepwear  _at all_ , as a matter of fact, she having made a point to remain fully dressed at all hours. Even in bed, she was booted, belted, and buttoned, ready for action at a moment’s notice. For just as Claire Beauchamp had no time for bedside prayers, she had no time for sleep, either. A safehouse was only safe if its master made it so, and so she slept little—prayed little —because her eyes were always on some distant horizon. The woods’ edge, the graveled path that wound towards the river.

Now, Claire crept towards the knock, gun barrel gleaming in the candlelight. When she spoke, her tone was —“The moon is high over the River Jordan*.”—and her finger hovered above the trigger. She heard a rumble of hushed arguing, a last minute scramble for the accompanying lines.

Finally, a voice reached her through the door. Like her own, it was practiced and measured, though distinctly masculine.

“We got bundles of wood* but no fire to light ‘em. Would you let us at your hearth?”

“Who’s asking?”

“A friend with friends*.”

Claire exhaled with relief and quickly lifted the latch. The door swung open to two pairs of eyes, both floating above anxious smiles. The shorter of the visitors peered forwards, offering only an awed, “ _Well, they wasn’t joking ‘bout the white_ ,” by way of greeting.

And while most women would have slapped the boy or shouted cries of “Negro!”, Claire Beauchamp was not your average woman. She was accustomed to such late night visitors—and accustomed, even more, to having fugitive negroes on her veranda.

“They don’t call her The White Lady because of her _skin_ ,” the older man replied. “She’s like a ghost, eh? Spiritin’ away our folks in her home.”

“Martin!” Claire grinned.

“Marty,  _please_ ,” he corrected, though it came as “Murty” when filtered through his accent.

“Right. Of course.” She turned to the young boy. "Glad you made it here safely. I'm Claire."

But he shrank from Claire’s extended hand, until a nudge from Marty urged the dark hand forward. Black met white in a joining of palms, the contrast of their skins no more surprising than their presence in Claire’s home. 

“I know who you are, Missus,” the boy whispered. “We all do.”

“Well, hopefully not  _all_  of us,” Claire replied, trying for lightheartedness. No more than fourteen, the visitor was practically shaking, the protruding knobs of his knees almost rattling together. “We’d find ourselves in a spot of trouble, otherwise.”

The boy gulped, and Marty clapped a hand to his back.

“No need to look so scairt! The White Lady knows her business. Plenty o’ folks been here ‘fore you, and the patter rollers* ain’t caught her yet!” 

Claire smiled thinly, thinking of the people she’d absorbed, however dangerously, into her home. Old and wizened men, widows and widowers, families and orphans…An entire troupe of the damned and beaten had found sanctuary within these walls. One could never be sure what awaited them once they left, guided away by the conductors* and a blind faith. It was luck that got the slaves safely across the Ohio, nothing more. Claire knew that, but knowing something rarely kept worry at bay.

“You must be Claudel,” she said. The boy's nod made Marty scoff.

“Gets the chance to name ‘imself and he chooses  _Claudel. O_ f all names!” He chuckled, beating a proud fist against his chest. “Me? I chose somethin’  _strong_. He just sounds like one o’ them rich boys.”

Claudel spoke defensively. “It was the name of my great, great grandfather!”

And then, from nowhere: _Bonne chance, Claudel!_

Claire’s heart skipped a beat as unbidden memories surfaced: a darkened street, a dangling ruby. A  _patisserie_ in the blue-dawn. She shook the thoughts away, all of them nonsense, and the babble of French became the nightsongs of the Valley. 

She knelt in front of the boy.

“Well,  _I_  think it’s wonderful, Claudel. And you can trust me. You’re safe here.”

“She’ll blow the head off any man who threatens ya,” Marty confirmed, smug on her behalf. “And probably a few she just feels like killin’.  D’ya shoot Randall yet, Claire? Heard he proposed again last month.” 

Claire bristled. The final remaining visions (a corner tavern,  _mother-rutting_ swine _!_ ) were replaced by white gowns and wedding rings.

Indeed, Frank Randall  _had_  proposed—and on this very veranda, no less. The first time had been in April, the second in early May. Both cold and rainy mornings—Claire’s “no” colder still—though perhaps the slamming door had been the coldest of them all.

“Word travels fast, I see,” Claire replied. “Fortunately a marriage requires two willing parties.”

“I reckon the White Lady’d look good in diamonds. A husband wouldn’t be so bad, helpin’ you around the house.”

“I’m fine on my own,” she said tersely. “And I’m not one for jewelry.”

Marty laughed and shook his head.

“It’s good to see you again, Claire.”

“Likewise.”

“‘Sides matters with Randall, all is well, I hope?”

“I’m managing,” she replied, glancing at the kitchen table. Her uncle’s portrait was there, laying among the pinned and pen-marked maps of the Railroad. She’d meant to hide them earlier—too dangerous if seen by the wrong eyes—but they had spoken to her with Lamb’s voice, and so they’d stayed throughout the night.

“A fine agent*,” Marty said, nodding curtly towards the display, “He’d be proud of you. Comin’ from London and takin’ over for him and such.”

“Well, I don’t do it for Lamb…But thank you, Marty.” An awkward pause, eyes darting around each other and Lambert Beauchamp’s ghost. “Now, about the exchange…” 

“Ah! ’Course! Met Red before?” 

Claire shook her head. What she knew of the legendary conductor, who known to all simply as “Red," had been passed on from others, more folklore than truth. The man had a spotless track record and came from Scotland. He wore a cap to conceal his fiery hair, the inspiration behind his name. And if last week’s stowaway, Ulysses, was to be believed, Red could also fly.

Marty appeared just as proud of his partner-in-crime, though he mentioned nothing of Red’s power for flight. He bounced on his heels, beaming.

“Straight off the boat, like you. And a true Scot if I e’er saw one!” 

(Claire had the distinct feeling Marty hadn’t, but she’d take his word for it nonetheless.)

“He’ll come next Sunday, two o’clock. Light a candle in the window. Red will know what to do from there.”   

Marty gave Claudel a playful shove.

“But keep your eye on this one, Claire. A thorn in my backside since the start. You’ll be glad to be rid of him when Red comes, I don’t doubt it.”

“I’m sure we’ll do just fine. Isn’t that right, Claudel?”

And so they did—quite well, as luck would have it. Claire hid Claudel in the small hideaway, bringing him food and water at the top of every hour. She gave him pen and paper to draw, a lantern by which to see, and her uncle’s watch for tracking time.

“When the large hand is there,” she explained, pointing to the roman numeral twelve, “and when the other hits the II here…That means it’s two o’clock.” 

When time afforded it, she kept Claudel company for an hour or so, relaying the details of her day: the weather, the books she’d read, the way the air was ripe and sweet with fruit. Born to immigrants in Louisiana, Claudel taught her French over punnets of fresh strawberries (“ _Des fraises_ , Missus.”) and whipped cream. Claire licked the juice from her fingers while Claudel wiped it on his trousers, his brow creased as the red sluiced down his hands. (“Don’t think like that, Claudel.”) 

Despite further rejections, Frank called on the house every day. He appeared like clockwork, arriving just before noon with a hand-picked posy. (“Claire? Please, let me talk to you.”) When that failed—and it did, inevitably—he often stumbled back in the evenings, though it was the scent of alcohol, not flowers, that clung to him then. Claire rarely answered the door, choosing instead to join Claudel in the hideaway until he left. Sitting cheek-by-jowl, they would listen to Frank’s pleas as he rounded the house, slurring appeals for another proposal, another chance. Eventually, he would go, but not before promising his return the following day. And then, finally, Claire would allow herself to breathe.

“Sorry about that, Claudel,” she would say, offering an apologetic pat on knee.

“S’all right, Missus. Ain’t got much longer down here, anyways.”

“Sunday,” she’d assure him. 

“Sunday,” Claudel would repeat. 

As if the word itself would set him free.

**____**

Claire paced the living room and peered anxiously through the window. A rumpled coat; a loosened necktie. A sleepy-slack face pressed against a wing-backed chair. All caught the glare of moonlight, revealing the slumped form of Frank Randall lounging on Claire’s veranda. It was his voice that rose above the crickets, swimming halting and whisky-soaked through the humidity. (“Cuhlaire…”)

Ever-punctual, Frank had arrived just before noon, both ring and posy (daffodils, this time) in hand. His usual evening return was marked by a volley of rocks, each thrown against Claire’s windows between slugs of spirits. In the past, he’d left by 11, called away by tomorrow’s workload or a growling stomach. Tonight, however, he seemed content to wait. 

Claire eyed the clock: 1:45AM, fifteen minutes before the exchange. Claudel lay huddled beneath her feet, awaiting the toe-tap signal for Red’s arrival. As instructed, the candle was lit on the sill. Shapes moved against the living room wall: hunters in the woods, crowded river bottoms, Frank Randall waking and discovering… 

Claire cringed.

To risk Frank seeing Red would endanger not only Claudel’s life, but hers and Red’s and the whole Railroad. One ounce of proof, one whiff of suspicion, and the lot of them would find themselves in shackles, too.

_Jesus M. Fillmore Christ._

Reluctantly, Claire opened the door.

“Frank,” she cooed, and she was glad when she was met with snores. Dribble oozed from mouth to chin, and Frank's head hung limply forwards. One poke, two pokes—and a third for good measure—but the man remained blessedly insensate.

Claire wrapped Frank’s arm around her shoulder and lifted, hoping to guide him inside. No such luck. The dead, clumsy weight of him made his feet drag, and she quickly returned him to his seat. Frank stirred, head lollygagging like a boneless animal. Claire hissed through her teeth.

“You bloody, sodding,  _bullocks-licking_  bastard!”

A faint applause burst from behind her.

“Verra inspired, Miss, though I didna think a lady could be speak so…colorfully.”  

Claire whirled around. 

During her struggle, a stranger had emerged from the woods. Though he dwarfed her from the veranda’s lowest step, something about his presence seemed to buoy her, bringing her to his height so that they stood as equals. His face lay partly in shadow, just beyond the moon’s reach, but Claire’s mind seemed to fill in the blanks, regardless. A long, straight nose; a slanted cat-eye stare. His hair poked out from beneath his cap, and when he stepped forwards, the moonlight caught its streaks of…

Red. Of course.

“I—ˆ,” Claire stammered, and she looked helplessly at Frank. Red tried to stifle his laughter—such a warm, oddly familiar sound—but failed. The sound wrapped itself around her, obscuring Frank’s snores, until the night rang only with that low, comforting rumble; the beat of her own heart.

Remembering her task, Claire shushed him.

“ _Shhh_ ,” she whispered. “Instead of laughing, you might try helping me, you know.”

“Well, I  _thought_  as ye meant to help him,” Red replied, “but it seems ye only want to curse him to his grave. A fine job yer making of it, too. Please, dinna stop on my behalf.”

Claire narrowed her eyes, but he smiled, looking back in the direction he’d come from.

“Best get inside before someone sees us.”

“You take that end, and I’ll take this one,” Claire agreed, lifting Frank’s legs. He muttered something insensible (“Frank, dear, I’m afraid we don’t speak Buffoon”) but was silenced quite abruptly when his head struck the door frame.

“ _Ach_ , sorry,  _a bhalaich_ ,” Red said, though he didn’t seem sorry at all. He peeked up at Claire, lips twitching at the corners. “That’ll hurt tomorrow.”

“No more than his beast of a hangover.”

Frank’s breathing came in booze-drenched gusts, and Claire wrinkled her nose. 

“We’ll lock him in the spare bedroom upstairs. I’ll keep him there until you and the boy are safe away.” Claire’s arms were shaking now, muscles strained beneath Frank’s weight. She pressed onwards and huffed, “I suppose…there’s…no need for…introductions.” 

“I ken who ye are, lass. The White Lady,” Red said. “They call ye ‘the light in the darkness’…Though, I’ll be honest, I canna see a damn thing, even so.”

Claire herself could scarcely see, the candlelight transforming shapes into only vague, flickering shadows. But that long, Viking nose was there, just as she’d suspected. And the flame danced within two eyes, slanted and feline. Also predicted.

_I believe ye mean to slap me._

“What did you say?” Claire asked. The voice—Red’s voice, surely—had taken her heart in a vice-like grip. 

She tightened her own hold on Frank’s legs, but her knees began to buckle as they crossed the living room.

“I didna say anything.”

“I heard you. You said  _something_.”

“No’ a thing. Promise.”

“Well, I’m not maki— oh,  _bloody hell_!” 

Strength depleted, Frank slipped through Claire’s fingers, falling like stone. The resounding  _thunk_  made them both wince, and they rushed to examine the damage on bended knees.

“D’ye think he’s all right?”

“No blood that I can see,” Claire replied, lifting one jellied limb after another. “No breaks, either. His arm will certainly be sore tomorrow though.”

Beneath them, Frank stirred. His mouth opened wide, tongue lapping and clucking in its thirst, but finally closed in satiated sleep. Claire and Red sighed.

“I’ll take ‘im from here, aye?”

“Be my guest.”

Meaning to throw Frank over his shoulder, Red placed two arms around Frank’s waist, but Claire leapt up and shouted:

“Don’t you dare do that!” And then, chastised by the loudness of her own voice, added quietly, “You’ll break his arm if you do it like that.”

Her instruction fell on deaf ears, for Red, all at once, simply let Frank crash to the floor. This time, the impact roused him, and one eye blinked blearily open. It darted around before settling on Red, still standing open-mouthed overhead. Frank croaked, and the sight of the large, six-foot giant made him scramble to his feet.

_“Claire?”_

A moment passed before she realized they had said her name at once. It was Frank who finally croaked it a second time, while Red stayed silent and motionless. But reverent, too.

Frank twisted around violently. His hair was wild and, as often happens in dire circumstances, Claire noticed only trivial details: Frank’s barely-there bald spot, the slightly snaggled tooth that poked between his lips. Something inside her repulsed, and she snapped.

“Frank, you should go. Now. This is all a misunderstanding.”

Frank looked between her and Red, balance not quite restored.

“So that’s it, is it? Him?” he sneered, swaying. “You—you’ve scorned me for some… _barbarian_!”

Unaffected by the insult, Red clutched at his stomach, howling with laughter. Claire eyed him warily and herded Frank towards the door.

“Please, Frank,” she said, kinder now. She threw a concerned glance over her shoulder, but found Red still in the throes of hysteria. “It’s not what you think. It’s…quite a funny story, really. You see…”

“Take your hands  _off_  me, woman!” Frank barked, shoving Claire away. She lumbered backwards, tried to maintain balance, but fell.

A nerve was struck just Claire hit the floor, and Red’s laughter ceased. He lunged forwards, launching himself across the room.

“Take yer hands off my  _wife_!” he growled, head driving into Frank’s abdomen.

They both careened into the kitchen table, maps and papers fluttering for the impact. Claire nearly laughed when Lamb’s smiling face lifted to face her; as if the two of them were sharing a private joke amid the chaos: 

_It can’t get any worse than this, my dear!_

(Uncle Lamb, while intelligent in life, was unfortunately mistaken in death.)

With surprising quickness, weapons had been drawn, a knife now poised to slice Red’s throat. Red seemed bizarrely unalarmed by this threat to his jugular, for his attention was still wholly fixed on Claire ( _Don’t you dare do that_!). The gaze was searing, the cobalt eyes tossing with memories. All half-remembered dreams:

_Claire! Claire, it’s me! Jamie!_

_Take yer hands off my wife._

Rusty hinges creaked. Another groan, a crash, and then the ground slammed suddenly open. A dark head emerged from the hole in the floor and scrambled up the ladder. It swiped Claire’s rifle from the shelf, trained it on the two wrestling men.

“Step away, sir!” Claudel commanded, advancing slowly. His tone was fierce, but the gun shook in his hands. “This ain’t your home, and she ain’t your woman! Step  _away_ , I says!”

Horror turned to revulsion as Frank was confronted by both barbarian and…

“ _Slave_!” he cried, at once leaping away from Red. He held out his knife in self-defense, but Claudel crept ever-closer.

“Turn ‘round and go home, sir. Or I’ll shoot ya! I will!”

“Claudel,” Claire began gently, holding out her hand, “put the gun down. It’s all right.”

“I ain’t gonna let ‘im disrespect you, Missus Beauchamp! I’ll kill him ‘fore he does!”

Jamie chuckled, and smiled at her from across the room. A look shared between lovers. 

“You think this is funny, do you?” Frank snapped. 

Red ignored him, eyes still drilling into Claire, swallowing her whole. Those voices, those memories, playing again and again:

_I found ye, Sassenach. I told ye I would._

_Claire! Claire, it’s me! Jamie!_

_Take yer hands off my wife._

Claire pushed the thoughts— _wife, wife, wife—_ and blocked the line of fire.

“Listen for a moment, Frank. Let me explain.”

“ _You_!” he screeched instead. He was crazed now, the combined effects of outrage and alcohol making him cruel. “You  _filthy_ , _little—”_

Like a bull released from its pen, Red charged again. A fist soared, a wall of knuckle crunching Frank’s nose. The blood flowed, and the snaggle tooth gleamed slick and red between his lips. Frank’s hands flew to shield his face, and he writhed as Red turned the knife against him.

“Claudel, this man seems to be in a fair amount of pain, wouldn’t ye say?” 

Claire gulped, recognizing the malicious sarcasm in Red’s voice, the way his head was tilted in gleeful condescension. Among the tales of his successes were the stories of his methods. Always just, not cruel—but intense, nevertheless.

“Now, I’m no’ one to kick a man when he’s down,” Red continued, “but I’d wager he’s done that a few times himself.”

Claudel nodded and inched closer at his beckoning.

“D’ye keep any slaves, Mr. Randall?” Red paused. “It’s Randall, right?”

Seeing where this was going, Frank nodded furiously.

“Was that,  _yes_ , ye keep slaves or,  _yes_ , yer name is Randall?”

“B-both.”

Claire watched as Claudel’s eyes flashed. He was standing just behind Red now, expressionless save for one twitching brow and that fiery flare.

“Will ye say their names, Mr. Randall? The slaves’ ye keep, I mean. I want you to say them now so you’ll remember this moment every time ye say them afterwards.” 

“B-but it’s just two! I only have the two!” Frank cried, as if this number made it a lesser offense. “They're F-Fiona. And Reginald. They’re called Fiona and Reginald!”

Red turned to Claudel. 

“D’ye ken the proper way to punch a man wi’out hurting yerself? Like so.” He made a demonstration, thumb securely wrapping around the second and third knuckles. 

“I ain’t ever had the chance to, sir.”

“Just leave, Jamie!” Claire burst, the name pulled from some foreign recess of her mind. Red looked up, strangely expectant, but Claire’s eyes had already moved to the clock face. Almost 2:30AM now; time running short.

“Leave, Red,” she amended ( _Jamie, Jamie, Jamie_ ).  “I’ll settle this myself. Take Claudel and  _go_.”

A flash of disappointment, like quicksilver. Red straightened his back and looked at her, challenging.

“We’ll no’ leave until he says their names again.” He bent, to cup Frank’s cheek. “Their names, Mr. Randall. One more time, if ye please.”

“F-Fiona,” Frank stammered. “Reg-Reginald.”

“D’ye hear that, Claudel? A man  _and_  a woman. I reckon that means ye can pummel him twice wi’out it being a sin.” 

The boy hesitated and looked to Claire for permission. She nodded, hoping to speed the pair along, though her mind was hardly on Frank’s punishment. Instead, that name— _Jamie, Jamie, Jamie—_ echoed loudly throughout the night, the room, her head. It joined the swirling chorus of that single but fragmented voice:

_I found ye, Sassenach. I told ye I would._

_Claire! Claire, it’s me! Jamie!_

_Take yer hands off my wife._

_Wife._

“C’mon, laddie. The man’s nose is already broken. It canna hurt much worse than it does.” 

Had her mind been clearer, Claire would have laughed at such ridiculous logic. But she felt removed, trapped behind a veil she couldn’t quite breach, and she listened to Red’s coaxing as if from a distance.

“Get on wi’ it, Claudel. We dinna have much time.”

_It canna hurt much worse than it does._

_Get on wi’ it._

_Get on wi’ it._

_Wife, Jamie, wife, Jamie._

And as Claudel’s blows landed—“For Fiona! For Reginald!”—Claire felt something suddenly seize her, break her, assemble her together again. She dropped to her knees, recognition finally dawning.

“Jamie?” she whispered, her own nightly prayer. “ _Jamie Fraser_.”

Claudel, now biting sore knuckles, swiveled around in confusion. Frank still lay half-conscious on the floor, his nose crooked and eyes freshly bruised. But Red— _Jamie_ —was the only one she saw. 

“Claire,” he replied, “ _Claire Fraser_.”

In saying Claire’s name, Jamie remembered Frank’s crimes. He crouched and hissed into the man’s ear. 

“Ye seem a bit worse for wear, Mr. Randall, and I’m short on time just the noo. But if I  _ever_ hear ye’ve touched or spoken ill of my wife again…Then by the cross of my Lord Jesus, I’ll rip awa’ that broken nose o’ yours and choke ye wi’ the pieces.”

Whether due to the force of Jamie’s ire or the effects of violence, unconsciousness finally took Frank under. Claudel stared at his bloodied knuckles, appalled at their strength. 

“I just hit, I just hit...” But the march of sure, confident footsteps quieted his stammers. He looked up and gaped, for Jamie was striding across the room, Claire herself already up and springing to close the distance between them. Their bodies crashed, a flurry of exclamations swallowed by kisses.

“I canna believe...” 

“It’s you.”

“Aye, it’s me, Sassenach.”

“And me!”

“And you.”

Feeling the voyeur, Claudel made to turn his back, but a magnetism had descended, and it kept his eyes trapped between them.

“Do…you know each other or somethin’?” 

“You could say that,” Claire said, breaking apart at last. She stood on her tip-toes, kissed Jamie’s jawline. Lingered there, refusing separation. His wove his fingers through hers and squeezed.

“We should go, Claudel,” Jamie said then, all business. “I’ll help carry Frank upstairs, but then we canna stay any longer.”

“Jamie, I’m coming with you.”

“I dinna recall it being a station master’s* job to leave her station.” 

At this obvious reluctance, Claire motioned towards Frank’s body, prone and crumpled at Claudel’s feet. 

“Well, I can’t bloody well stay here  _now_! How the hell will I explain all this?”  

“I’ll come back for ye in the morning,  _mo nighean donn_ , once the job’s done. It’s dangerous out there. Ye ken what they do to folks who—”

“And since when has a little danger ever stopped me?” Claire quipped. “Now, I’ll bandage Frank up a bit—that should only take a few moments—and  _then_  we’ll go. The three of us. Together.”

Without waiting for a response, Claire dropped to the floor, fingers probing the bruised and battered planes of Frank’s face. Jamie looked impatiently at the clock but grinned sideways.

“‘Claudel’, aye?” he said, full of approval. “A fine choice, laddie.”

“Thank you, sir. Marty said that—”

“ _Ach_ , dinna listen to what that auld dolt has to say. It’s a good name. Verra regal.”

From beneath them, Claire laughed. 

“All right, then,” she said, some minutes later. Chin in hand, she assessed her work and grimaced. Scraps of fabric lay to the side, the hem of Frank’s shirt now torn and frayed. 

“Pity I don’t own a nightgown of some sort. Rather made a mess of his clothes…But it’ll do for now.”

She bent further and retrieved the discarded rifle, slinging it over her shoulder. Jamie watched her backside as she stood, turned, and strut towards the door.

“So. Are we ready, lads?”

“Oh, Sassenach,” Jamie laughed. “Ye havena changed a bit.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Definitions:
> 
> River Jordan - Ohio River.  
> Bundles of wood - Expected fugitives.  
> A friend with friends - Password signaling the arrival of fugitives with a Railroad conductor.  
> Conductor - A person who directly transported slaves for the Railroad.  
> Patter Roller - A bounty hunter who captured slaves.  
> Agent - A person plotted escape routes and made contacts for the Railroad.  
> Operator - A conductor or an agent for the Railroad.  
> Station Master - A keeper of a safe house for the Railroad.


	3. Chapter 3

**_THREE_**  ( **Bristol, England – April 1999)**

Claire Randall did not feel particularly charitable towards God today. Or towards his angels or his Saints—and certainly not towards his bloody Apostles. And why should she, really? The Apostles’ steadfast loyalties had run dry when it counted, a chorale of snoring men while their Christ had bled. Claire hated betrayals, all unmet promises and failed potential. And on this Easter Sunday her own missed opportunities seemed to bellow from the organ:  _If you had only! If only, if only!_ ****

Beside her, Louise dropped to her knees, gulleted chin tucking into a hallowed chest. Her eyes peeked up, not at the priest’s pulpit, but at the clock hanging just above, as if prayer could right the wrongs of time. Claire snorted quietly. Gravity had not been kind to the woman, and time even less so. Louise’s jowls sagged forwards in blatant proof, skin dripping from her skull like molten wax. _If only, if only!_

Claire caught her own reflection in the window and cringed: patches of thinning, gray hair, once so full and curly, and a face turned to crinkled lace. Her cane stood at her side, a reminder that, even if she felt so inclined, she couldn’t kneel and right herself without help.

It wasn’t that Claire  _cared_  about her appearance so much as what these physical changes implied. Old age, death. All those regrets oozing from brittle bones, joining in the organ’s elegy for her dwindling future. 

“Terminal cancer…”

“Early stages, though!” 

“Admission still advised.” 

“The hospital— just beside the facility!”

Oh, how the doctors had sung such statements! A row of youthful faces beaming with silent relief: it was not  _their_ deaths that they predicted,  _their_  doom they foretold. Surely, they seemed to think, the hospital’s convenience would ease the blow of her body’s betrayal?

_Well, terminal cancer, my arse._

Perhaps this was why the Apostles slept, Claire mused: they’d recognized the signs of danger, wanted to shunt it away in ignorant, sleepy denial. She could understand that, at least. All she wanted now was to burrow beneath her covers, eat a Hershey’s bar, and forget about chemotherapy and syringes and the saccharine smiles of her aids.

“Oi, I’m going back to my room,” Claire whispered. Louise nodded, crossed herself, and sat back into her chair with ease.

_Horrible jowls, but better knees, damn her!_

“Will you come to bingo at 7 tonight, then?” Louise asked.

“Bloody hell I will.”

“And why not? You’ve not gone once in the three weeks you’ve been here. You’ll make  _friends_.”

“No need,” Claire replied, very matter-of-fact. “I’ll be out of this place soon enough.”

Her friend rolled her eyes, and Claire thought she’d caught a glimpse of the girl Louise had been in youth, not the weathered woman groping futile for the hour's hand. Perhaps she’d had bit of precociousness, an alluring strut that showed off the promise of her plump hips (which were now, of course, replaced with metal). 

Did men like that sort of thing back when she was young? Claire could hardly remember, though a recent issue of the  _Daily Mail_ claimed men’s tastes veered towards “the waif”.  _Get the Kate Moss Look!_ the headlines shouted. Claire had never been a waif, and despite an illustrious career in healthcare, had no qualms about eating McDonald’s Big Macs or foregoing exercise in favor of the telly. She made a note to ask her godson, Claudel, for his opinion—“Do  _you_  enjoy dating broomsticks, Claudel?”—before remembering he’d recently changed his name to Fergus.

So many things changed, and so quickly. ("Claire, Claudel is just so  _bourgeoisie_.”).

“I hear there’s a new bloke in the East Wing,” Louise whispered, “According to Nadine, he’s unmarried and  _quite_ the looker. I’ll bet he likes bingo, too.” 

“The East Wing? Isn’t that where Laoghaire was transferred last week?”

Louise wrinkled her nose and grumbled a jealous “yes”. The man’s arrival had apparently done wonders for the East Wing’s desirability and little for Laoghaire’s.

Claire couldn’t keep up with the fluctuating interests of the home’s female residents. Just last month, the South Wing had been  _de rigeur_ , coveted like one would an impressive piece of real estate. But then the South Wing’s handsome Mr. Germain had croaked, and its sheen had yellowed like an old bedpan. Its vending machine was always broken, anyways, and one of the nurses possessed a sixth sense for late-night couplings. No fun in that.

“Well then, I won’t be missing much,” Claire replied. “In fact, fancy a wager? For an entire bag of digestives, I’ll bet Laoghaire has already lifted her skirts for him. Old todger’s probably licking her orthopedic shoes as we speak!”

“Oh, you’re  _bad_ , Claire,” Louise giggled, then added, “Though I doubt he has much interest in grizzly bears.”

The pair snickered simultaneously, “ _Leghair_.”

“You really ought to come though,” Louise persisted. “When was the last time you flirted with a man?”

 _Too long,_  Claire thought, a touch wistfully. Married at 19 and newly widowed, she’d never had the chance for romantic entanglements. But her marriage to Frank had been one of those unmet promises—little romance, little spark— which was also of little surprise considering their whirlwind courtship in the summer of ‘42. Still, they had lived a nice, quiet life together, its fruits being now a Saturday yard sale and a home sold above listing price. Two plots in a cemetery, one already occupied, the other in silent wait.

There had always been  _something_  missing, a hole inside Claire never filled. Throughout the years, there was talk children (Claire), of a move to America (Frank), but both understood babies and picket white fences couldn’t repair what had always been broken. 

Guiltily, Claire had thought Frank’s passing might close the gap, but she'd come to find his grave had only widened it. With Frank’s death, came the reminder of her own mortality:  _terminal cancer_ , all that wasted time. Why had she never tried to fill the emptiness? Or find its cause?

“Please come,” Louise begged now. “I don’t want to be left with Susie.”

“I’ll think about it, mmm?” Claire conceded. “By which I mean, I’ll conveniently fall asleep watching  _East Enders_ at 6:30.”

With a final smile, Claire struggled to her feet, palm curled around her cane in a white-knuckled grasp. The effort alone left her exhausted, and she trudged to the chapel exit without bothering to genuflect.

Really, Claire knew she ought to listen to the staff’s entreaties, be more open-minded: 

“Your compliance will make this a much more pleasant experience, Mrs. Randall.”

“…Peaceful acceptance.”

“Strawberry Fields Home for the Elderly is a wonderful place!”

“Indeed, the hospital is located just next door!”

(Was the place named by a Beatles fanatic or just an idiot? She’d ask her Fergus about this too, though he’d probably say it was better than ‘Shit Fields Hell for the Incontinent’—the name she’d given it.) 

Claire needed to be  _friendly_ , Dr. Hildey had said. Claire needed to  _cooperate_.

“Do you want to be the patient we complain about in the break room, Mrs. Randall?“

 _Yes and no_ , Claire thought. 

 _Yes_ , because it meant she’d gotten their attention, done something that could break their resolve and kick her out. Claire’s body was feeble, but her mind was sharp as a tack, finding loopholes in SFHE protocol even the staff couldn’t contest. Once Germain’s health declined, she’d even assisted with his treatment, becoming something of an advisor to the younger, inexperienced staff members when his advancing age befuddled them. And if Claire could take care of SFHE’s patients, wasn’t she perfectly capable of caring for herself? Couldn’t they afford her the luxury of dying in  _her own home_? She thought so, but everyone else seemed to be of a different opinion.

Of course, the staff’s attention would also indicate that they were watching. Seeing if she might try to escape again, listening for traces of falsehood in her words:  _No, dearie, you needn’t call my godson. Claudel— I mean, Fergus_ — _is well aware I’ll be visiting my husband’s grave today._  (“Dearie” was the giveaway here. Claire was not the sort to call someone “dearie”.) 

They caught her, always, despite the top-notch wit.

Claire slowly walked to her room and took mental note of the vacant corridors. Perhaps an escape during Sunday service, through the western stairwell, was the better course of action? She’d do a trial run the following week.

“M-M-Mrs. Randall!”

The latest intern was flying down the hall, hands gesticulating wildly. Mary’s doe eyes were rounded—pretty, though disarming at close range; the girl did have  _such_  a peculiarly miniscule face—and she stammered.

“A m-man. Mr…H-h-h-he fell! I n-need…”

“Out with it girl!”

But the intern only spun around, motioning Claire to follow. Claire managed a few paltry steps before Mary, now at the West Wing entrance, zoomed on back to fetch her. 

This was yet another instance of her life’s unmet potential. Mentally, Claire was beyond the swinging doors, running down the hallways to aid the fallen man. Physically, however, she lagged behind, out-paced by her own mind.

“Sorry, Mrs. Randall,” Mary squeaked, offering Claire a wheelchair.

“Not to worry. Sometimes I forget too.” Claire collapsed into the seat, relief rushing through her limbs. Revitalized by a sudden sense of purpose, she held up her cane as if charging to battle. 

“Onwards, Mary!” she cried. The chair accelerated, the wisps of Claire’s hair fluttering, not in the putrid hospital air, but in the winds of the bright green moor she often dreamed of. She laughed. It was the simple things, really.

Quickly, she and Mary rounded the corner and— _Aha_! There he was! A pitiful sight, seeing a grown man splattered on linoleum, but she’d been there too once, and her heart ached for him. 

“Mr. Fraser,” Mary said, “don’t you worry! Help is on the way! And Mrs. Randall was a doctor once. D-do you think he’s broken anything, Claire?”

Claire pitied the man for her incompetence more than his present situation. Still, she gave a good show of examining his body, which, though too thin for a man of his stature, looked wholly intact.

_And wholly attractive._

“Mary, I believe the greatest source of Mr. Fraser’s discomfort is that the floor is bloody freezing. But to answer your question: no, no broken bones.”

Mary sighed. “R-right. Of c-course.”     

The patient turned his head slightly, face still smushed against the tiles. Immediately, Claire noticed the wild, red hair, an impressive thicket that belied his age. An amber liquid was pooled beneath him, but he seemed untroubled by the damp left leg of his trousers. A wry grin lifted the visible side of his mouth, and he spoke in a rich Scots accent.

“A pleasure to meet ye, Mrs. Randall. I promise this is no’ how I usually greet the lassies, but I’m afraid I didna have a say in the matter.” He coughed. “My legs are none so strong as they used to be.” 

“How exactly did you, erm, find yourself in this position, Mr. Fraser?” 

Claire regretted the question as soon as she asked, for the man’s cheeks turned a bright crimson. It wasn’t as though people  _willingly_  flung themselves to the floor—and who wanted to explain their helplessness? She never did. (“Oh, don’t mind me, Fergus! Just thought I’d have a picnic on the stairwell landing. As one does.”)

Luckily, the man was spared the trouble, for Mary offered an explanation.

“Mr. Fraser fell while trying to  _escape_. Seems you t-two have something in c-common.”

“Is that so?” Claire said, impressed.

A stampede of footsteps echoed from the adjacent hall. Mary broke away to guide them, crying, “This way! This way!”

Claire laughed, and whispered, full of mischief, “For future reference, I believe the  _West_  Wing stairwell is the way to go.”

“Aye,” Mr. Fraser replied. “During chapel. I ken that now.”

She smiled, then looked sorrowfully at the puddled mess.

“Ach, it’s no’ what ye think,” he said, swiping one hand through the liquid and licking his fingers. He lifted his chest a small distance from the ground, revealing an opened bottle of Ensure whose contents had soaked his shirtfront. “It’s whisky, aye?”

Claire sniffed and, sure enough, it was the scent of alcohol that reached her, not the ammoniac stink of urine or meal replacement. “You put  _whisky_  in your Ensure?”

Mr. Fraser balked. “D’ye take me for a fool? I  _pour out_  the Ensure, and  _then_  I add the whisky. I call it ‘self-medication.' Verra therapeutic. And a proven cure for boredom if ye want the truth of it.”

“A cure, you say? Have you presented your findings to the FDA? It would be shame to keep such a revelation secret.”

“Nay, I’m a selfish wee bastard and dinna want to share it with anyone just yet.” Mr. Fraser looked around and then whispered from the side of his mouth. “Though I might be convinced to share it wi’ you. Ye’d have to present a strong case, mind, for I dinna give up my genius—or my whisky—easily.” 

“And here I thought you were the next Alexander Fleming, selfless and ready to save mankind!” Claire smirked and sank deeper into her wheelchair, arms crossed. “What’s your price, Mr. Fraser?”

“Yer name and yer room will do.”

“Woah-ho-ho! Careful now. I don’t give up my name, or my virtue, quite so easily.”

“It’s no’ yer virtue I’m after, lass. I only want yer room so I dinna have to suffer Laoghaire Mackenzie next door. Though I suspect ye gave up yer virtue some time ago.”

“Indeed. Spoiled goods, I’m afraid,” Claire conceded, smiling. “I’m Claire.”

“Hello Claire. James Fraser, or Jamie if ye like. I’d shake yer hand but I canna move my arm just the second.”

“That’s all right.” She reached down to pat him on the hand, and their touch crackled with static electricity. “ _Oof_! Sorry about that.”

“Dinna fash,” he said. “Most I’ve felt in years. Now, about yer room…” The accompanying wink was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen, and yet ghostly fingers tickled at her forearms. She hardly noticed the arrival of the other nurses, a flurry of blue scrubs urging her out of the way. They cooed reassurances between sugar-coated reprimands, but James seemed just as unmoved by them as Claire had been.

“No more escaping, Mr. Fraser,” one said. “It takes time to adjust, I know, but Strawberry Fields is exactly where you need to be right now.” 

( _Twaddle!_  Claire thought. She’d heard that one before.)

Two of the nurses had wrapped their arms beneath James’ shoulders, using their own body weight to leverage him upright. Both groaned beneath the strain and James, likewise, cried out in pain.

“Don’t you dare do that!” Claire barked, rolling forwards.

The nurses complied, setting the man back down, though James seemed no less distressed for the relief. His eyes bugged wildly.

“ _Claire_?” This time, her name rang with recognition, and he craned his neck around. “It—it canna be.  _Christ_ , yer just the same, Sassenach, but, but—”

While his sudden warmth bewildered her, she felt something similar take root in her own belly. A strange but startling familiarity sparked her emptiness to flame, a red candle casting promises on the walls of a darkened home. And not unmet, this time, but kept. The nurses gawked around them, equally confounded.

“ _A ghraidh_ , d’ye no’ remember? It’s me, Jamie!”

“Yes, I rather gathered that,” she replied, still confused. Why was he looking at her like this, acting as though they’d met before? Perhaps it wasn’t a feebleness of the body that had brought him to Strawberry Fields, but of the mind?

“Please,” he begged, “ _Claire_.”

One of her husband’s Oxford colleagues, maybe. She had rarely gone to Frank’s work functions sober, too incensed by the drivel to go without liquid fortification _._ But no. James didn’t seem the type to hob-nob over expensive champagne and academia. But surely she would’ve remembered such a man, had they been acquaintances once? ( _He’s unmarried and_ quite _the looker._ )

And yet. There was still that bizarre sense of familiarity inside her, burning and growing. There was strawberry juice on her tongue, the solidity of a rifle in her hands. Phantom fingertips continued writing stories on her skin: 

_Rain, mud._

_Vive la Revolution!_

_The moon is high over the River Jordan._

At once, Jamie seemed suddenly more sure of himself. When he nodded to the staff, his voice held none of the resignation she’d expected but a definitive challenge—and one clearly directed at her. “It canna hurt any more than it does. Get on wi’ it then.”

And just like that, something clicked into place. The earth shifted, the songs of French merchants and summer crickets ceased. Instead, the words on Claire’s arms spoke aloud:

_I ken who ye are, lass. The White Lady. They call ye ‘the light in the darkness.’_

_Oh, Sassenach. Ye havena changed a bit._

_Get on wi’ it then._

Legs suddenly springy, Claire leapt from her wheelchair.

“Jamie?” she cried. “ _Jamie_!” She stumbled forwards, knelt down, and when she set her hands on his arms—not quite as firm as she’d once remembered, but still like anchors in a storm—she felt the breach inside her close.

She tried to keep from crying, but the tears rushed down her cheeks. Had the Apostles wept for their failures, as she had? And did they weep, again, when their Christ had risen, forgiveness and love and completion granted by another sight of His face? 

She studied him, drinking in the miracle of his eyes, still slanted and blue and bright. His mouth was bordered with laugh lines. Had she given him those? She thought so; they were hers as much as his, and she saw their other lives inside them.

“Jamie, you look…well, bloody  _old_!” She laughed, somewhat hysterically, and the nurses glanced sideways. She laughed harder when Jamie smiled, so alive and hers—God! hers _—_ right in front of her. 

“This is mad. Jamie, this is…” But Jamie held his hand up, silencing her.

“What about your room?” 

Claire halted.

“What aboutmy room? Why the bloody hell does it matter what my— _oh_.”

“Aye,” he grunted as the nurses finally hoisted them both to their feet. Jamie’s arm, thankfully unbroken, quickly snaked itself around Claire’s waist. “My legs may trouble me from time to time, but I’m still verra capable in other areas.”

He bent down to kiss her roughly, and Mary squeaked again (“M-Mr.  _Fraser_!”).

“Jamie, perhaps you shouldn’t do that right here.”

“Sassenach,” he said, “I’ve spent lifetimes waiting to kiss ye. I mean to make the most of what time we’ve left. Take pity on an auld man—and kiss me.”

“Are you sure you can handle it, auld man? You seem a bit peaky.”

Jamie grinned, pressed his lips to her forehead, and sighed.

“If I die kissing ye, Sassenach, then I’ll be sure to thank God when I see Him.”


End file.
